


I'll Always Be

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Budding Love, Healing, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Innocent, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Non-Smut, Recovery, Romance, Sequel, Smarm, Sweet, Tragedy, clean, gun shot wound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-01-17 02:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12356013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: Sequel to I'm Always Here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/11843865/chapters/26736738).Sherlock and John have made their confessions but recovery is far from nearby, and they must learn to navigate this new life they share while working towards healing and love.





	1. Not For Anything

They aren’t quite sure how to go on, but it doesn’t take them very long to sort it out. Recovery is, of course, step one, and that means recovering not only from their wounds, but from their first night together. Waking up to golden light playing across John Watson’s face, Sherlock would’ve preferred to stay in bed all day. Eventually, however, it becomes quite impossible to stifle the groans of pain that escape his lips. Loath to wake his friend, he attempts to stumble into the living room himself, only managing to get as far as the door frame before sliding pathetically to the floor. John wakes immediately and leaps into action.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” he nearly shouts, extricating himself from the sheets and blankets that seemed to cling to his limbs before crouching beside the great detective and helping him slowly to his feet. Sherlock can’t help worrying over the way his loose tee shirt hangs off his arms, and he hates to think it might be part of the recent torture he’s endured. He makes a mental note to get a good meal in the man as soon as possible.

“Of course,” he responds, trying not to sound too pained. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

John smiles, suddenly mischievous. “I’ve been in and out of consciousness all morning,” he responds, his mouth pressed into a shy smile and his eyes sparkling.

Sherlock blushes and doesn’t respond, preferring to focus on keeping his scream firmly inside himself as John helps him into his chair.

“Are you hungry?” the doctor asks, handing Sherlock the prescription bottle and making his way back into the kitchen. “You shouldn’t take those on an empty stomach.”

“Starving,” Sherlock responds quickly, hoping to use the opportunity to get John to eat, too. “Do we have anything to eat, though?”

Shuffling sounds dribble out of the kitchen as Sherlock reads the bottle in his hand. Eventually, John’s responds by popping back out holding up a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs. “I do believe that Mrs. Hudson went shopping for us,” he remarks smoothly, a grateful smirk on his lips.

Sherlock tries to smile but the effort doesn’t quite work and John grimaces, setting down his find to retrieve a glass of water. “Thank you,” Sherlock gasps, taking a swig as he tosseds back the pills. Relief couldn’t come quicker but of course it doesn’t seem fast enough. Still, the results are a much happier-- and much hungrier-- Sherlock Holmes.

“How many eggs do you think you can eat?” John calls from the other room.

Sherlock frowns, staring at his own shaking hands and breathing slowly. He has a voice somewhere, deep inside his chest, but there’s a hole there and he feels like his words have escaped through it. Nothing comes out his mouth and he realizes suddenly that he’s crying.

Before Sherlock even sees him, John has made his way to Sherlock’s side, kneeling and clutching Sherlock’s hands in his. His eyes are wide and whatever he was going to say to comfort his friend is lost in his own empathy, similar feelings of sourceless fear tingling through his throat.

“We can’t do this,” John finally whispers, his voice coming out choked. A sob breaks through Sherlock’s reverie and his eyes turn terrified to John’s face. “Not alone,” the doctor clarifies, recognizing that Sherlock must’ve thought he’d changed his mind.

Relief is plain on the man’s face and he sighs. “I know you’re right,” he murmurs. “But I can’t help hating it. I wish this would just…be better. I can’t say I wish it never happened, despite how much I hate it.” His small voice almost disappears as he finishes, and he looks away guiltily.

John smiles slightly, understanding. “I certainly wouldn’t want to do it again,” he comments, nearly laughing despite his tight eyes. “But I wouldn’t want to lose this,” he adds, placing a careful kiss on Sherlock’s fingers, still clasped in his hands. “Not for anything.”

 


	2. What If It Does?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, a bullet hole seems like the lesser of the pains in his chest, and Sherlock wonders what normal people do with all the feelings their hearts experience. He certainly is glad he can focus on his brain instead, although the effort doesn’t seem quite as successful as it has been in the past. It’s as if his brain is tired and his heart is just grateful for the opportunity to beat a little faster in the presence of someone that deserves it.

There’s something lovely about a warm breakfast and warm company. Of course, the low fire burning in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach certainly adds to the effect. If there were a thousand fascinating cases at his door, he wouldn’t leave this moment. Shoveling eggs and toast in his mouth nearly as fast as he can scoop them off the plate, his ankles interlocked with John’s, he feels as though the world is suddenly, and impossibly, quite perfect.

“You’re gonna make yourself sick,” John finally laughs, his own pace significantly slower.

“I’m bloody starving,” Sherlock grumbles in response, thinking of the hospital food he was limited to in recent days. The thought makes him even more grateful and he slides a piece of bread through the egg yolk before taking a bite and washing it all down with a gulp of tea.

John hesitates, setting his plate aside as his eyes trace the lines of Sherlock’s face. He seems as though he wants to smile, and his expression certainly features a facsimile of one, but something in his eyes is dark. Sherlock notices immediately and forces himself to put his own plate down on his lap. Their feet are crossed together in the middle of the room by some unspoken agreement that some contact was necessary, and Sherlock rubs his foot against the back of John’s leg in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

“You’ve hardly eaten for a long time,” Sherlock begins slowly, deciding honesty is best.

A shadow crosses John’s face and he nods, looking as though he might puke. “I know,” he almost scoffs. “It doesn’t feel too good now in my stomach.”

“Didn’t they feed you at the hospital? Lestrade said you were badly dehydrated, too.”

“They did. We both received the very best care thanks to Greg. We really should make sure to thank him,” he adds the last bit as though he’s making a mental reminder and Sherlock narrows his eyes, wondering at the forced normalcy of it all.

“Please talk to me,” he finally whispers.

John cocks his head and focuses his eyes on Sherlock’s, the distance in his expression clearing slowly. His breathing picks up a comfortable pace and Sherlock notices for the first time that it was stilted before. Returning his plate to an eating position, John takes a stab at a bite of food and proceeds to eat, slowly at first, but faster until the entire meal is gone.

Sherlock joins him and they clear their plates and the extras in the kitchen. They’ve each finished several cups of tea and are feeling more than a little sloshy by the time John speaks up. His head is resting back in his chair and he stares at their interlocked legs.

“I’m safe,” he finally whispers. “And I can’t seem to get that through my head.”

Frowning, Sherlock tries to ignore the way his stomach twists. He focuses on deductions, hoping he can prove to himself that John isn’t afraid of him, so much as reliving the fear that has been eating at him for so long. Downcast expression— _sad, shame? guilt?_ —a heavy frown— _much of the same_ —but no bags under his eyes anymore— _slept better, comfortable—_ and his skin is more rosy than before— _hydrated, fed, and comfortable. He must not need to focus on the state of his body and can focus more on the state of his mind._

“What are you afraid of?” Sherlock asks simply, wishing he could find a better way to say what he means. To say that he doesn’t need to be afraid. He berates himself, wishing there was a way to apologize for letting it all happen before. He can’t exactly promise nothing will happen when he couldn’t stop it last time.

Sherlock looks up, not having realized he’d looked away, and finds John’s eyes fixed on him. “You’re scared, too,” the man says softly.

A forced chuckle pushes past Sherlock’s lips and he puts on what he hopes is a playful expression. “The Great Sherlock Holmes?” he mocks. “I’m not supposed to be scared.”

John’s eyes remain serious and Sherlock drops the façade. “You’re scared of losing me,” he says simply, biting dreadfully close to the heart of Sherlock’s thoughts. “You’re scared of letting me be lost.”

Suddenly, a bullet hole seems like the lesser of the pains in his chest, and Sherlock wonders what normal people do with all the feelings their hearts experience. He certainly is glad he can focus on his brain instead, although the effort doesn’t seem quite as successful as it has been in the past. It’s as if his brain is tired and his heart is just grateful for the opportunity to beat a little faster in the presence of someone that deserves it.

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply. “And I’m scared of you deciding you’d rather be lost than here.”

John does laugh now, and the light in his eyes is a welcome sight. “That’s not going to happen,” he remarks lightly, taking another sip of tea. He sounds so sincere and Sherlock tries to remind himself that he can trust his senses—sounding sincere usually means that he _is_ sincere but—

“What if it does?”

The silence in the room is pressing, but not the sort of uncomfortable silence when two people don’t know what to say to each other. It’s the same sort of heavy silence that happens when two people know there aren’t any words. Like watching a baby be born and somehow, despite all the noise, it’s quiet. Or watching a sad movie, where it’s better to just cry than drag yourself away from all the tears.

John stands, and presents his hand to Sherlock, who takes it gratefully. He presses his forehead against the back of John’s hand and breathes in the man’s scent for a moment before standing beside his friend. Carefully and very gently, John wraps his arms around Sherlock and hugs him, burying his face in his chest. Sherlock is grateful for the softness of it, but can’t help wishing he could be _closer._ That he could be completely one with the man.

“The world can wait,” John decides firmly, pulling regretfully out of the hug and leading Sherlock back to his bedroom, one arm still wrapped around his waist. “And the sunshine was too lovely not to sleep in it.”

The curtains are open wide when they lay down together, curling close to each other so their hearts beat the same pace and their breath mingles between them, the most intimate reminders that there is life still flooding beneath their skin, and a whole life ahead of them.


	3. Bed Rest

_It’s the little things,_ Sherlock decides as he allows a small smile to brush his lips. It’s not his smile. Somehow, amazingly, perfectly, wonderfully, it’s John’s smile. The army doctor’s lips are softer than Sherlock would’ve expected, and the way they just brush his seems to fill him with electricity. He can almost feel the pulsing of static energy from John’s fingertips as they trace his bare chest.

When he first woke up, John was still sleeping. He knew they hadn’t been napping long, because the room was full of the sort of midday shadows the high sun tends to cast, and his eyes didn’t feel buggery yet. Soft breaths fluttered in and out of John’s open mouth as he slept and Sherlock had had the nagging sensation that it would taste exactly as sweet as he dreamt. Jumping an unconscious man was not particularly polite though, and he had waited for the bleary sappy permission before placing the gentlest of touches on the man’s mouth.

Now, laying together in the same bed seems like the absolute best way to spend the day. Sherlock isn’t sure when he took his shirt off, but now he’s glad he did. John lets the tips of his fingers trace small circles around the center of his sternum and down his stomach, tracing his muscles in neat lines the way only a medical man can.

“External abdominal oblique, serratus anterior,” John murmurs playfully, moving from one side of Sherlock’s belly button towards the top of his ribs and under his arm. “Latissimus dorsi, pectoralis major.” He smirks as he arrives finally at Sherlock’s strong chest, and stretches his hand across the muscle there.

“I believe the street term is _moob_ ,” Sherlock remarks, raising an eyebrow and opening his eyes slowly to peer at John’s face. He’s greeted with a loving smile and the warmest liquid expression he’s ever seen.

“I’m quite sure this is not a _moob_ ,” the man retorts, placing his ear against the muscle. “But I love it here. I can hear your heart beating.”

Sherlock smiles, the faintest trace of sadness reaching his face. He doesn’t want to say that he didn’t think he’d pull through, or that he was terrified that John would die. He wants to forget all the reasons his beating heart means so much, and just appreciate that it does. He closes his eyes again and slowly drifts back out of consciousness, rolling heavily through the feathers of his own mind.

When he wakes again, he’s alone. He reaches a hand out to his side, feeling for his companion and doing his best to suppress the terror that bubbles violently in his throat when he finds nothing. The sheets are still warm, though, and he tries to convince himself that John must’ve just gotten up for the loo or a cuppa. He struggles with his voice for a moment, debating whether he can call John’s name without screaming or letting any of his fear come to the surface. Before he can decide, John returns.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he grimaces, running a comforting hand through Sherlock’s curls. “I woke up and had to use the loo and then thought your medicine might be wearing off soon. Want a top off?”

Sherlock hadn’t noticed immediately but now that he’s satisfied about the state of John’s wellbeing, he realizes the throbbing in his chest wasn’t solely fear. He nods, a reflection of John’s expression twisting his own mouth into a frown. “This is bloody awful,” he manages as John helps him sit up and passes him the bottle of pills.

It seems the doctor can’t quite keep his hands off an obvious patient, and sets down a cup of water he’d brought in his other hand so he can examine the wound again. “No signs of fever or infection although there are clear signs of trauma-“

“I should think so,” Sherlock replies, nearly laughing. Nearly. “It doesn’t take a doctor to recognize that.”

John scowls playfully and cocks an eyebrow at Sherlock as he straightens again. “Now, now, don’t make me put you on permanent bed rest.”

“Oh?” Sherlock pops the bottle off the pills and swallows a couple with water. “And what exactly would that entail?”

A small smile and John crawls across the bed next to Sherlock, returning to his previous place and pulling the blankets up around himself like a burrowing animal. An image of a sleepy hedgehog comes to Sherlock’s mind and he can’t help laughing. “It would entail staying here with me for all the rest of your days,” John finally announces, a glint in his eye.

Sherlock glances out the window, wondering if he might ever find it in him to return to his life of crime fighting in the bustling London streets. His eyes move back to John’s face and as he crawls back under the covers to join him, he decides that if there were a hundred exciting cases knocking on his door the next week, he wouldn’t find one single reason to leave this bed.

“I don’t need a prescription for that, Doctor.”


	4. Never This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feigns indignation as John reenters the room. “I assure you, John, I have no problem in that area.” His eyes seem to take-in every sloping line of John’s shoulders, chest, and hips as they slide ravenously down his form. “None.”

John is awake long before Sherlock, and he can’t help the cold fear in his stomach. There’s something sort of surreal about experiencing such dread amidst such bliss. His fried instincts begin searching for a cause and he scans the room with every sense available to him. His eyes move almost imperceptibly as he examines the soft ivory curtains that are too stiff to billow in the breeze that trickles in through the window, rustling gently instead. They cross to the beautiful antique furniture that holds Sherlock’s clothes and soon, he hopes, his own. The pale walls dance with blues, greens, whites, and greys in delicate paisley patterns, interrupted by such items as the Periodic Table of Elements, and various other “artwork.”

The heavy smell of warmth lingers comfortingly in his lungs as he takes a breath, and there is something distinctly seductive about the scent of Sherlock Holmes. There’s a sour smell, as well, from the sweat that inevitably soaks the sheets when two people share them, but it’s a satisfying aroma, despite its inherent grossness. It means they’re together, and it holds little of the bitter odor of fear that he’s grown so used to in the past few weeks.

That same warmth draws him into the cocoon he shares with his flatmate, and he’s quite sure that nothing in the world could be important enough to make him want to get out of bed. He vaguely remembers that they will eventually have to work and pay bills, but the world can wait—this moment is too beautiful to endanger with thoughts of reality. If he’s really lucky, he hopes this might actually even be reality, too.

So why is he so afraid?

Suddenly, the word seems so silly. Not just because he would prefer not to feel it, but because it doesn’t quite seem to fit. He’s never been particularly adept at identifying and discussing his own emotions, but therapy has taught him a few tricks, and he turns to reflection. His fingers are laced around Sherlock’s wrist, the closest his shorter arms will let him get to the man’s hand, and he allows himself to pull strength from that connection as he dives into whatever feeling has settled inside him.

He can’t help wondering at the way it has formed, not like a resigned heartache that reminds him so much of standing alone atop a windy hill, but like the sort of cold numbness that settles in abandoned basements; there’s some certainty that the world has continued to go on, and the dreadful realization that it will not wait. His life will not wait. Not for his recovery or his decision-making, or the broken tears he wants so badly to shed.

Turning onto his side, he peers at Sherlock and wishes he could join the man in whatever dream allowed him such restful sleep. John sighs and allows his eyes to drift shut, although he’s sure that his own sleep will elude him.

“This is going to end,” he whispers, surprised to find himself speak around a sob. “This is all going to end, and we’re going to be left with hospital bills and compromises. We’re going to have to testify, and live it all again.”

A hot tear rolling down the bridge of his nose startles him almost as much as the soft touch of a thumb, brushing it away. When he opens his eyes, Sherlock is peering back at him, his head turned as far as he can manage. John frowns, wishing they could both lay so comfortably on their sides.

“ _This,_ ” the detective whispers back, speaking slowly, “is never going to end.” He pulls his arm up, naturally sliding John’s hand into his own and grasping it firmly. “This is never going to end.” John frowns at him but doesn’t say anything. Cocking an eyebrow, Sherlock turns his head the other way and checks the time on his bedside table clock. “Dear Lord, _this_ is going to end, yes. But would you really want to stay like this until well-past noon every single day? You’d get bed sores, Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock winks and John notices a sharpness to the expression that tells him the man is doing his best to hide his pain. “Drugs?” John asks, smirking.

“Dear God, yes. I hope _this_ ends, too,” he jokes as John pushes himself off the bed and makes his way towards the kitchen to refill the cup of water from earlier. “I would hate to be incompetent for the rest of my life.”

“Incompetent or impotent?” comes the response, a devilish smirk plain even just in the voice.

Sherlock feigns indignation as John reenters the room. “I assure you, John, I have no problem in that area.” His eyes seem to take-in every sloping line of John’s shoulders, chest, and hips as they slide ravenously down his form. “None.”

He licks his lips and John doubts entirely whether it’s in anticipation of the glass of water, which he passes to him without further delay. The spread of a ruby blush through John’s neck and face steals whatever snarky response comes to mind, and he presses his lips together as Sherlock reaches for a sitting position. He’s able to do it without help this time and John can’t help wondering if their newfound relationship will change again when Sherlock no longer needs him for those basic needs. The detective takes the water and gratefully washes down his pills, his color settling as the water caresses his throat.

John wonders if there’s any reason in particular that Sherlock seems keen on keeping a bundle of blankets on his lap, and smirks at the thought. “Did you have any plans for today?” he finally asks, enjoying the play of emotions across Sherlock’s face.

Slowly and with careful precision, Sherlock raises an eyebrow. The expression is equally serious and humorous. “That entirely depends,” he replies carefully, not daring a smile. “I can think of several things we might do and several others I’d like to.”

John frowns, surprised at Sherlock’s tone. “What?” he asks more sharply than he means to. Sherlock pats the bed next to him and John takes the seat, planting his feet firmly on the floor, poised to run.

Sherlock frowns too, noticing the position, but doesn’t say anything about it. “We have…options. Several. I think that, if you’re up to it and have the patience to help me, we should do them all.”

Finding himself nodding surprises John, but he realizes quickly that this is easy for him. He usually goes along with whatever Sherlock cooks up for the day anyway and listening to the man’s voice is comforting. He gestures for him to go on and manages a smile. “I’m listening,” he adds playfully.

“At some point, we will need to discuss matters with Lestrade. I’ve no doubt he will want us to testify when the case goes to trial, and he may need updated statements since our initial ones bore clear signs of trauma—our memories are clearer now and we can provide further information that may be useful.” His words are too fast and John realizes that the same knot of discomfort that he’s been holding in his stomach since they returned to 221B has been working in his friend too. He suddenly feels silly for not having said anything, and places a warm hand on top of Sherlock’s.

“I know,” he admits. “In many ways, we have a job to do. We can get through it.” Sherlock seems relieved, both at the sentiment and the word ‘we’, and John relaxes a bit more.

Taking a steadying breath, Sherlock continues: “We should also consider talking about what we’ve experienced and looking into counseling. I have no doubt that that would be beneficial and it might be good for us to do together, if you’re willing.”

John’s chest swells warmly and he beams at his friend. The great Sherlock Holmes, the height of rational thinking, the very embodiment of logic, wants to seek mental health counseling for them. John can’t help admiring the safe feeling that relaxes his shoulders as he’s presented with evidence for how much Sherlock cares about their wellbeing, individually and together. “I think that’s a very good idea, Sherlock,” he murmurs, not trusting his voice to be any louder.

Sherlock nods as if he’s confirming something he long suspected, and moves onto his last point. “I think we should also discuss our future.”

Blossoms of emotions bubble somewhere inside John and he’s suddenly conscious of the careful way Sherlock seems to analyze. As much as he hates to think that Sherlock could doubt his love, even for a moment, he’s glad to see it means so much. Leaning forward, he rests his forehead against Sherlock’s as the detective stoops to return the gesture. “I’m glad you want to have one,” John murmurs softly.

“Don’t you?”

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Sherlock smiles, a wide, easy smile. “I love you,” he whispers.

His breath tastes sweet as it brushes John’s face, and the older man closes his eyes, relaxing into what he hopes is the start of a very comfortable lifetime. “I also love you,” he smirks.


	5. Can You...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you sure you’re ready?” Lestrade asks them both, shifting in his chair and making it quite clear that he knows the answer already.
> 
> John doesn’t wait for Sherlock’s answer, and responds in the affirmative with an irritated grunt and a sharp nod. 
> 
> “Let us get on with it then,” Sherlock confirms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: In response to some of the questions I had on the previous installment regarding what actually transpired to bring our boys to this point, this and the next chapter will address those things more directly. As always, I will shy away from any graphic depictions of violence (because no), but I wanted to properly warn anyone who prefers not to read that information.
> 
> TW: Brief discussion of past torture (i.e. burying alive, enforced isolation, food/water deprivation) and defensive injuries (i.e. bruising to character's arms from attempted escape, as mentioned in previous work "I'm Always Here").
> 
> SIDE NOTE: This chapter is less smarmy and more story-driven. If you're just here for the sweetness that is our boys in recovery, feel free to skip! I just wanted to have /some/ sort of plot happening. ;)

Few places are quite as cold as those that remind its occupants of their own trauma. These cold walls have seen a number of other events, but Sherlock can hardly remember the good for the bad. Certainly he has helped apprehend a fair few murderers from the very seat that Greg Lestrade now occupies. This particular encounter is less enjoyable.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Lestrade asks them both, shifting in his chair and making it quite clear that he knows the answer already.

John doesn’t wait for Sherlock’s answer, and responds in the affirmative with an irritated grunt and a sharp nod. Lestrade nods and drifts his gaze to whatever expression Sherlock assumes he must be wearing. He hasn’t been particularly careful with the tilt of his frown or the furrow of his brows, and he’s sure the detective inspector is reading as much physical pain in his eyes as he is emotional.

“Let us get on with it then,” Sherlock confirms, wishing he had something stronger than whatever the hospital gave him.

Lestrade examines them each with one more glance before sitting forward and beginning. “Alright, I’d prefer to do this separate, _but,”_ he emphasizes, grabbing at control of the floor before John can interrupt with whatever he’s opened his mouth to say. “ _But_ I know that that’s not an option in this case. However, I need you both to tell me what you remember and what you know without considering what happened to the other. I also need you to recognize that this will be difficult, painful, and is entirely not meant to hurt you. I hate this almost as much as you do.” He stares at them with a heavy expression and it’s suddenly clear how much this whole thing has hurt him. “It won’t be easy hearing each other talk about it,” he admits, “but we’re here, the three of us, together.” He considers their hands, clasped together in Sherlock’s lap, but doesn’t comment on their newfound relationship.

The basic questions go the fastest, and Sherlock realizes quickly that Lestrade is simply trying to warm them up. The stiffness in John’s shoulders loosens as they discuss details like full name, date of birth, and address, and he finds himself relaxing, too. Somehow, starting the very thing they’ve been dreading is much less terrible than actually having time to dread it. Sherlock files this information away for later consideration as it becomes his turn to answer these questions.

Something in Lestrade’s eyes changes as he finishes writing down Sherlock’s response to his most recent inquiry, and it’s clear he’s about to begin what they really came here for. There's an uncomfortable guilt in Sherlock’s stomach as he realizes that he’s _curious._ He’s had so many questions and he’s had so much to say. Sure, he and John have talked, but they haven’t really talked about this. He closes his eyes and remembers their brief conversation in the bathroom before their first shower together.

_The sides of his hands and arms were bruised from where he’d tried to break his way out of captivity._

_“No,” John whispered. “No, I should talk about it. I was- he put me- well it was a coffin. He buried me.”_

Shudders rupture in Sherlock’s gut as he acknowledges that whatever he’s about to hear will hurt, and also that he wants to know. There has been little desire from either party to discuss it and now is the time to get it out. John must realize this too because his eyes slide to Sherlock’s and he tilts his head slightly, a questioning expression on his weathered features.

“Tell me what you can remember,” Lestrade says quietly, his soft voice sympathetic and strong. “Anything you can share will be helpful and no detail is too small.” He’s said the same thing so many times and Sherlock and John have both heard him tell so many victims— _survivors_ —the same thing. Somehow, though, the reassurance matters.

John sighs, and forces himself to relax, acknowledging that he can’t say anything silly or wrong—this is his story to tell. When he opens his mouth, the words tumble out and he finds himself speaking more vulnerably than he thought he would.

“I don’t remember the man’s face. At the time, I thought it was strange, but now I know it’s because there were several of them. Whatever drug they had me on made me feel so fuzzy. Like I was underwater and all my senses were too filled up to pick up anything new,” he begins quietly. “At first, everything just sort of didn’t make sense. It took me a long time to understand what was going on. Later, everything seemed sort of black and cold and very heavy. There was something over me and I bruised myself black and blue trying to get it off.” He runs his thumb over the tips of his fingers, remembering the sharp stabs of broken wood beneath his fingernails.

A sharp intake of air through Sherlock’s tense lungs reminds him fiercely of his love for the man beside him. Whatever capacity he’s ever occupied in John’s life, the theme has always been the same—whatever the cost, he must be protected. Often, that cost was Sherlock’s own physical or emotional wellbeing. Unfortunately, a dynamic like that is rarely healthy, and always dangerous. Case in point:

“I realized that I’d been buried as the drugs started to wear off. I was immediately worried that I was already low on oxygen because I couldn’t tell how long I’d been in there. However, there was one small light and I could see that there was tubing setup to get air into the box and keep me alive. After a while, I wasn’t sure if that was a mercy or if that was the torture.”

Lestrade nods again and jots something down. Maybe a detail he hadn’t caught before, maybe just to make John feel better. “Can you estimate how long you were there?”

John shakes his head. “I found out later it was about three days.”

“Can you describe the interaction you had with anyone else during that time?”

Confusion crosses John’s expression and he glances to Sherlock for reassurance, even more confused when he finds none there. “What do you mean?”

“When we got the location of the man’s hideout from him, we sent a party there and they found where you’d been buried,” Lestrade explains slowly. He sounds careful almost, as if he’s afraid his words aren’t what John is prepared to hear. Not that he can precisely suspect what John is or is not prepared for at this point. “It was a small plot out in the backyard. Did the guy send down water or talk to you through the tubing system at all?”

A hard lump passes John’s throat with an audible gulp and his eyes grow wide. He shakes his head again and seems to draw in on himself for a moment before a short burst of humor erupts from his mouth and he rolls his head back. His posture is stiff but his appearance is that of someone who’s heard a bad joke but can’t help thinking it’s a little funny. Sherlock tries not to exchange a look with Lestrade but can’t help checking to see what he can deduce about John’s state from the detective inspector’s face. Apparently, Sherlock isn’t the only one confused by the outburst.

“No,” John snarls suddenly, returning to a straightened position. “No, I was quite sure I was buried far away from any sort of civilized contact. I couldn’t hear or see anything except the change in light as day and night passed and even that was almost impossible to tell.”

Sherlock’s eyes close as Lestrade’s widen. “You’re absolutely sure?” the man pushes.

“Of course I’m bloody sure.”

“That’s very helpful, John, thank you. I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” Lestrade replies, seeming flustered.

Sherlock’s sharp hiss seems to startle them both and he speaks without opening his eyes. “What did the man say?”

Looking first at his friend beside him, and then at his friend across the table, John watches the interaction playout with a perplexed expression, bitterness still carving lines into the corners of his mouth. “What now?” he asks, his tone much lighter.

“What did the _perpetrator_ say?” Sherlock repeats, practically spitting his words. Something about his demeanor makes it clear that he’s not intending his ferocity towards Detective Inspector Lestrade, but it would scare a lesser man regardless. John internally applauds him for holding his gaze and position unwaveringly.

A moment passes and the piecing together of words and sentences is clear on Lestrade’s face as he waits for Sherlock to open his eyes. There’s something entirely foolhardy about daring Sherlock Holmes to do anything, and everything about the man’s countenance makes it clear that he expects a collaborative effort. “That John knew everything that was going on,” he explains the moment Sherlock complies. “That he was being kept up on everything that was taking place as far as negotiations and that you were going to be handling the release.”

John frowns, trying to remember if he could possibly have forgotten something like that. He shakes his head, answering both of the other men’s unspoken questions. “I never knew anything. Not a word until he pulled me out and tied me up.”

“Does that change anything?” Sherlock pushes, his voice steadier now, and lower, but no less threatening. He pinches the bridge of his nose with the fingers on his free hand and there’s desperation in the way he increases his grip on John’s hand with his other.

“I dunno yet,” Lestrade admits, sitting back in his chair and looking at whatever he’s just written down. “It might. Obviously negotiations would’ve gone different if we could’ve known that, although we had our suspicion all along-“

“We thought you were dead,” Sherlock translates roughly. John grimaces, imagining what that must’ve felt like. A month ago, he would’ve thought himself crazy to think it meant _this_ much. Losing _this_ would be unbearable.

“But he’s certainly ensured he won’t get a plea bargain, and he’s thrown all the rest of his testimony under suspicion. You’re quite sure the drugs had worn off enough that if he _had_ tried to talk to you, you would’ve heard it?”

John frowns again, wondering for a moment whether the expression might stick there if he keeps using it. “I’m sure,” he finally replies, running through a list of symptoms he noticed at the time.

“Don’t push yourself too hard to remember,” Lestrade cautions. “You took a nasty blow to the head and I don’t expect all the details to be crystal clear.”

At these words, Sherlock does open his eyes, and fixes Lestrade in what could only be described as a soldier’s stare. The expression on a dying man’s face when he looks out and sees the eyes of his companion, nodding with the understanding that they’re going to go down together. In this case, they survived. But there is no coming back from a war like this one.

“And thus we come to me,” Sherlock decides.

Lestrade presses his lips together and seems to size up the younger man. “I’m not done there,” he gestures with his head at John. “There’s more to learn for sure. But I think that his story will make more sense when we hear from you. Piece it altogether an’ that.”

He sits forward again and prepares to take notes. To John’s surprise, Sherlock leans across the table and places his free hand between each of Lestrade’s, blocking the notebook and stopping the man’s movement. John and Lestrade both stare openly at Sherlock, shock and…fear?...smearing their faces into frowns.

“You were there, Detective Inspector. What do you want to know?” Sherlock hisses.

There’s a challenge in his voice and John suddenly has the feeling that he’s been led to believe something that is about to be disproven. His eyes flash to Lestrade’s face as they await an answer. With a resigned sigh, Lestrade takes back his notebook with a tug and snaps it shut. He crosses his arms over his chest and keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s. And, John notices, pointedly away from his.

“I want to know what happened when you went rogue and attempted a hostage release on your own despite express orders from the Scotland Yard to do so.”

John gasps, the only sound in the crackling silence. A scowl, fierce as night, darkens Sherlock’s features as he stares into Lestrade’s eyes. Despite the frustration there and the evident anger, there is respect. John doesn’t take his eyes off Sherlock long enough to see what the Yard’s least annoying officer’s response to that expression is.

“When I observed a failure on behalf of the Scotland Yard to act on lifesaving measures, I took them myself.”

“And risked not only the life of the hostage, but of yourself, as well as the integrity of the manhunt that would inevitably follow,” Lestrade practically shouts. The demonstration is particularly aggressive in direct comparison to Sherlock’s icy cold persona.

“And made the only decision I could live with.”


	6. This Shouldn't Have Happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon this is short, I'm on my work computer and it's time to start closing so I have to stop where I am!!

“So tell us, Sherlock Holmes. What decision did you make?” Lestrade stares stern-faced at Sherlock, holding his position with the firm knowledge that he’s right. Whatever the good it achieved, Sherlock risked a lot.

Still, Sherlock doesn’t seem prepared to look at his companion, and keeps his eyes pointedly on Lestrade. “When the Yard failed to act, I contacted the perpetrator myself and offered him ransom.”

John laughs, interrupting their conversation. “How much was he asking for me?” Lestrade and Sherlock do turn to him now, something between disbelief and disapproval on their expressions. “Alright. Christ. I was just curious.”

Raising an eyebrow and turning away, Sherlock continues his story. “That must’ve been when they retrieved John from his _tomb_ because I was greeted with a gun and John tied up. Unfortunately, I had been left out of the most recent updates to the situation,” he turns this last into a snarl as he glares at Lestrade, “and failed to bring the appropriate ransom. Apparently, he’d increased his demands since I’d last heard.”

“Wait, you actually brought real ransom? How much did this cost you, Sherlock?” John interrupts again, sitting forward so Sherlock doesn’t have to put so much work into his movement.

“It very nearly cost me everything I care about,” he glowers, the ferocity of a truly dangerous man burning in his eyes. Guilt brushes John’s cheeks and he runs a thumb reassuringly across the back of Sherlock’s hand.

Lestrade watches them interact for a moment before clearing his throat and redirecting attention. “Right, sorry,” John replies, settling back into his seat so Sherlock can continue.

“He threatened to shoot John if I didn’t provide banking information for my sources so he could withdraw money himself.”

“Wait, stop right there. ‘He’? Just the one?” Lestrade asks intently. His pen is poised just above the paper of his notebook and it’s clear that he believes he’s close to something important.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Yes, I suppose there was just the one,” he decides. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Lestrade frowns and makes a note. “The others were guarding the perimeter. They greeted the Yard with quite a display when we arrived shortly after you. They must’ve closed in after you’d gone inside.”

“Gone inside where, by the way? I never did see where we were,” John asks, musing at his own curiosity.

“Old warehouse,” Lestrade shrugs. “Not particularly interesting.” He is corrected in this assertion by Sherlock’s lengthy explanation of everything this chosen location reveals about the perpetrators and the crime. “Old warehouse,” he grumbles. “Very interesting.”

John smiles for a moment before laughing in a short burst. “I’ve missed you two,” he decides, his voice high and light with humor.

Sherlock rolls his eyes but allows himself the indulgence of a small smile. “When I threatened to approach the man, he fired at me.” Sharp pain fills his head as he remembers John’s screams and his own slumped body falling to the concrete floor. It’s a strange thing to know that you’re dying in a pool of your own blood without really being aware of anything at all. Lestrade’s eyes move naturally to John, but Sherlock continues. “He hit John with his gun while I fell,” he finishes.

John’s eyes are wet and sad. “You saw,” he murmurs.

“Yes. I saw.”

All three men are struck by the sadness of the situation and their eyes fall naturally. As if Lestrade is suddenly uncertain whether he can handle anymore himself, he rushes through several last questions, clarifying or requesting details. Finally, he snaps his book shut and stands sharply. The chair squeals across the floor as he does so, and tumbles to the ground behind him. They all wince at the sound.

“We’re done,” Lestrade announces, almost desperately. “We’re done for now. Go home.”

Sherlock moves slowly, as might be expected. Pushing himself to his feet and staring levelly at the man he’s known for so many years, he dips his head in a sign of respect. “You too, Greg,” he murmurs, reaching out as best he can to press one hand into Lestrade’s shoulder.

The man closes his eyes and one single tear drips down his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he responds gruffly, sniffing and wiping his face as he steps away from Sherlock’s touch. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

This time John reaches forward, moving around the table and pulling Lestrade into a rough hug. “This shouldn’t have happened to any of us, Greg. Go home.”


End file.
